What Was Never Asked For
by sweet-and-simple
Summary: When everyone else remembers the future that never was, Lambo remembers too.  And then he remembers the futures that were.


_Author's Note: How is that, in the manga, when everyone is back where they belong and they all have their memories from the future, Lambo doesn't seem any different? Shouldn't he remember his future too? I thought so._

He remembers.

He remembers everything his big brother wouldn't have wanted him to, the memories like icy water in his veins, his heart, his very soul, claiming him as something small and lost in the midst of despair and horror. He remembers, just like everyone else in his family, like everyone _around_ his family.

Dino remembers training them to save the world from Byakuran. But, before that, he remembers failing to save anyone, in every existence he has – thousands of alternate universes that could not be saved in time. Tsuna remembers dying. Gokudera, Ryohei, Yamamoto, Hibari, and even Mukuro and Chrome, though they never show any problem with it, remember Tsuna dying. The arcobaleno remember dying. Byakuran remembers nearly taking over the world, plus the thousands of times he defeated alternate universes. Shoichi and Spanner remember meeting each other, being used for Byakuran's master plan, and then ultimately dying. Shoichi remembers being alive longer than Spanner, being used by Byakuran for motives that had nothing to do with conquering society, but the physical body.

Lambo, who knows all of this because he _lived_ it, remembers more than anyone else. He remembers surviving, just barely, through so many attacks on his mind, heart, and body. He remembers beyond their flashback to the future that saves the world and every world that was born from it.

He lived longer than everyone, saved by their sacrifices and sheer luck that grows to be experience and coldblooded murder. He lived by giving out to save his heart, by wearing his heart on his sleeve to save his body. Everyone in the world, the destroyed worlds, wanted something different from him. They wanted him to bend over, do tricks, play dead.

He remembers killing people who didn't deserve to die, letting villains live so they would owe him a favor. He did things that would have disgusted the Vongola family as a whole had they been alive for the sake of doing things that would have made them extremely proud.

He remembers all of it. He remembers his 16th through 30th birthday, there behind his eyelids. He remembers a tortured, morbid existence that would have been so happy and pure had he had someone to protect him while he cried, someone to guard his back while he was turned away, a warm body he could wrap himself around whenever he felt lonely.

In his memories, it's impossible – his wish to never be alone, he can't make it come true. He can't undo all the things he did to carry out the Vongola's wishes, he can't scrub his skin clean until even his soul wasn't putrid – it wasn't possible.

In his memories, he's filthy with blood, decay, fear, and sadomasochism. He gave up so much and took in return all the wrong things. He gave of himself until he was literally nothing and then he was gone. Just. Like. That.

He remembers dying. Finally. Like liquid peace flowing throughout his being, he remembers gasping, losing himself to the pain of burning lungs and comatose flesh as he was cornered by one of Byakuran's funeral wreaths, the female blue-haired one that he can't remember the name to, and captured in a bubble of completely pure rain energy.

He remembers being eaten alive, on the brink of never coming back, by dinosaurs – their box weapons. He remembers and yet it is the most peaceful moment to be found in his memories after the years of loneliness and despair and rage.

He remembers, these memories that are his and yet not his. These memories that would be his had they not gone into the future and stopped Byakuran. He remembers, just as well as everyone else remembers, what happened when they succeeded and also when they failed. But he can not understand it.

Because he is only five years old when he remembers everything, too young to even understand sex or death or the fact that his family isn't immortal. He isn't experienced enough to understand that he is capable of killing in the future or that he is capable of dying. He doesn't comprehend that he is watching rape and murder and that he is alone for it all.

He is only five years old, going on six, so he lets the memories come at him like a terrible nightmare, because he doesn't know what else to do, and then he screams for Nana to comfort him. When it is all over with, he cries for a day or two, but then he forces the thoughts away because they don't do him any good. He reaches for the candy and bloats his self-esteem more than he already has so he can hide behind it, his huge, tattered shield.

And he wishes for, prays for, hopes for, finds a shooting star for a better ending. He closes his eyes, pretends to see nothing, and blocks the memories behind a wall of disbelief and childhood ignorance.

He smiles and goes on with his day, his week, his month, the rest of his life – because he is five years old, going on six, and he doesn't want to think about this person who is him and isn't him, who did horrible and great things and then died a horrible and serene death.

Lambo doesn't want to think about that. So he doesn't.

He remembers nothing. He knows nothing. His family, they don't have to be concerned about him. Because he isn't hurt, he doesn't have terrifying nightmares or memories or whatever they are. He is A-okay.

He remembers everything. But because he knows nothing, he ignores all that he remembers. And then remembers nothing.

No one asks, so he has nothing to tell.

He is five years old, going on six. And he doesn't think about the future that will hopefully never be. He doesn't let himself think about it, not even for a second.

His life depends on it.


End file.
